IT WAS THE summer of 1989 and I had just finished eighth grade. Communist Vietnam had recently agreed to open its doors to visits by "Vietkieu," Vietnamese-born Americans, and U.S. tourists. I am considered a Vietkieu, having fled Vietnam when I was only 3 months old.

Being so accustomed to American society, I had no desire to visit Vietnam or to learn about it. So when my father asked me to come along with him to meet my relatives, the furthest thought from my mind was spending my summer in a country in which I did not know a single soul and which was known to be so poor. But I did not want to hurt my father's feelings, so I agreed to come along.

After more than 24 hours of exhausting travel, we reached our destination. Stepping off the plane, I can still remember how incredibly hot it was. The airport back then did not have air conditioning, and it took hours just to complete the paperwork. After slipping a couple $20s under the table, the customs official let us through the exit gate.

To my amazement, 34 relatives (I did not even know I had half that many) awaited us. I met for the first time my grandparents, my father's 12 siblings, their husbands/wives and countless cousins. It was an emotional moment for my father -- the first time in 15 years that he had been reunited with his family.

My father and I got in the van that would take us to our relatives' house and I can still remember them staring at me. They all knew my name, yet I did not even know one of them. I was a complete foreigner.

I remember looking out the window and noticing how dirty everything was. People were all over the place. Motorcycles and bicycles were like ants and covered the streets. After about half an hour we reached the house where I would be staying for the next two months. I almost started to cry. The place was in the worse possible condition. The two-story building had mold growing from the walls and the two bathrooms were disgusting. Worst of all, can you imagine 34 people living under one roof!

Even though I lived in the worst conditions for the next two months, it was an excellent learning experience and the best time of my life. I learned how important my family was to me and how proud I should be of my Vietnamese heritage.

Having grown up in the suburbs of Seattle around only white Americans, I had basically lost my identity and used to be embarrassed and ashamed to be Vietnamese. During the trip, I was exposed to my people for the first time and learned that it was all right to have black hair. I was in the majority for the first time. Seeing everybody with black hair made me feel normal.

That summer was the most significant event in my life for so many reasons. I am now more open-minded. I had grown up thinking that everyone was as fortunate as I was, and now I have a taste of what it is like to live well-off and poor.

Since that trip, I have spent every summer in Vietnam. Not only do I spend my summers there, so does the rest of my family. The choice of my life taught me so much. Most of all, though, it taught me a new culture -- a culture I thought I had lost. My visits remind me everyday that, even though I live in America, I am still Vietnamese and proud of it.